“What are your plans, inspector?” asked Clarke.
“Fairly comprehensive ones, Mr. Clarke.”
“This time we’ve got to get him,” said Clarke. “I may tell you, inspector, that we’ve formed an association of our own to deal with the matter. A legion of interested parties.”
Inspector Crome said in his best manner:
“Oh, yes?”
“I gather you don’t think much of amateurs, inspector?”
“You’ve hardly the same resources at your command, have you, Mr. Clarke?”
“We’ve got a personal axe to grind—and that’s something.”
“Oh, yes?”
“I fancy your own task isn’t going to be too easy, inspector. In fact, I rather fancy old A B C has done you again.”
Crome, I noticed, could often be goaded into speech when other methods would have failed.
“I don’t fancy the public will have much to criticize in our arrangements this time,” he said. “The fool has given us ample warning. The 11th isn’t till Wednesday of next week. That gives ample time for a publicity campaign in the press. Doncaster will be thoroughly warned. Every soul whose name begins with a D will be on his or her guard—that’s so much to the good. Also, we’ll draft police into the town on a fairly large scale. That’s already been arranged for by consent of all the Chief Constables in England. The whole of Doncaster, police and civilians, will be out to catch one man—and with reasonable luck, we ought to get him!”
Clarke said quietly:
“It’s easy to see you’re not a sporting man, inspector.”
Crome stared at him.
“What do you mean, Mr. Clarke?”
“Man alive, don’t you realize that on next Wednesday the St. Leger is being run at Doncaster?”
The inspector’s jaw dropped. For the life of him he could not bring out the familiar “Oh, yes?” Instead he said:
“That’s true. Yes, that complicates matters….”
“A B C is no fool, even if he is a madman.”
We were all silent for a minute or two, taking in the situation. The crowds on the race course—the passionate, sport-loving English public—the endless complications.
Poirot murmured:
“C’est ingénieux. Tout de même c’est bien imaginé, ça.”
“It’s my belief,” said Clarke, “that the murder will take place on the race course—perhaps actually while the Leger is being run.”
For the moment his sporting instincts took a momentary pleasure in the thought….
Inspector Crome rose, taking the letter with him.
“The St. Leger is a complication,” he allowed. “It’s unfortunate.”
He went out. We heard a murmur of voices in the hallway. A minute later Thora Grey entered.
She said anxiously:
“The inspector told me there is another letter. Where this time?”